Drabbles
by Madison Square
Summary: Rating subject to change for each drabble. 7, Bumlets, Race, and Spot, superheroes. Read and Review, please!
1. Heat

Disclaimer:  Nothing belongs to me save for the wonderfully useless drabbles.

[A/N]:  This is a collection of drabbles and/or one-shots.  I may update soon, or not at all.  Really, I told myself I was going to write 'Death to Spottie' today, but when I took out my notebook, this is what happened.  Enjoy (hopefully).

==   
  
Heat

[111 words]  
  
==  
  
Madison Square  
  
==  
  
_            It's too hot._

            This is the first thing Spot thinks of when he opens his eyes, squints against the cold sun.  He idly wonders why there is heat when it is the day after Christmas and there is snow on the ground outside.  He feels hazy and slow and everything is blurry but perfect.

            There is a weight on his chest and a pleasant feeling along his side but he thinks nothing of it.

            He remembers the party last night and the laughter and drinks and the loud conversations.

            He remembers the boy.

            He looks down and sees Racetrack's sleeping form curled up next to him.

            He smiles.

_            It's too hot._  
  
==  
  
End Drabble [Heat]  
  
==

Challenges welcome.

Review?  Please?


	2. Throb

Disclaimer:  Nothing belongs to me save for the wonderfully useless drabbles.

[A/N]:  This is a collection of drabbles and/or one-shots.  I may update soon, or not at all.  Really, I told myself I was going to write 'Death to Spottie' today, but when I took out my notebook, this is what happened.  Enjoy (hopefully).

==   
  
Throb  
  
==  
  
Madison Square  
  
==  
  
He came one day to your school.  He was new and he smiled.  His name was Mark but could everyone please call him Mush?  Smile.  Wink.  Girls swoon at his feet.  But that didn't matter.  What mattered was the way Blink looked at him, hearts in his eyes and faint grin on his lips.  Mush saw him and it was like jigsaw pieces finding their match.  It was just him and Mush and Mush and him.  Just Blink and Mush.

            There's no more room for you, Racetrack.  No more room.

            That night you can't sleep.  Your head is filled to the brim with memories of you and Blink.  Just you and Blink.  The memories twist and turn and push and pull, fighting for dominance.

            Remember, one time at the movies, when his hand had lingered near your knee and you were breathless the whole time, thinking of how if you moved your leg just so…?  You don't remember much of the movie.

            Remember, working on your end-of-term ninth grade English Project at his house and you were with him in his room and the computer was on, playing a Beatles CD, and the fan was whirling swish, swish, swish?  "I want to hold your hand," The Beatles had said.

            Remember, remember, remember.

            You don't want to remember.  You rise from your sheets and stumble into the bathroom.  Breathing is difficult.  You feel like you aren't getting enough oxygen, and everything is seizing up inside of you.  Is this an asthma attack?  Or maybe you are getting too much oxygen, and all of your red blood cells are bursting inside of you and you are filling with dead cell particles.  You briefly wonder if anyone has died of oxygen poisoning.

            It's all these memories, you think.  Too many memories.  Too many moments.  There is so much pressure building up beneath your temples.

            You massage your temples slowly and think that maybe if there was a way to let out all these memories, the throbbing will stop and go away. 

            Open the cabinet above the sink.  You look for a razor.  You're going to shave your head, you think deliriously.  Then the memories won't get tangled up in your hair; they would be released.  You can almost hear the _chk__, chk, chk_ of the blade dragging over your skin.  You can almost see the blood pounding under the thin layer of skin that stretches over your temples.  So vulnerable.  One flick of the wrist and the memories will be gone, gone, gone.  No more remembering; no more thinking.

            After throwing down everything from the cabinet shelves, you still can't find the razor.

            Maybe tomorrow, then.

            Somewhere in the background you can feel the throbbing of blood through your veins and arteries around your ankles and it irritates you.  
  
==  
  
End [Throb]  
  
==  
  
Please Review.

Challenges welcome.


	3. Charcoal

Disclaimer:  Nothing belongs to me save for the wonderfully useless drabbles.

==   
  
Charcoal   
  
==  
  
Madison Square  
  
==  
  
Dutchy is an artist.  No one else knows but Specs because at night they climb out onto the fire escape and soon it is just Dutchy and Specs and the setting sun and the _tsk__, tsk, tsk _of charcoal on paper.  
            _Tsk__, tsk, tsk._  
            Dutchy loves nights like this.  Sometimes he draws buildings or people or horses but most of the time he just draws Specs.  The curve of his nose, the arch of his eyelashes, the never-ending rims of his glasses.  
            _Tsk__, tsk, tsk._  
            He gets charcoal all over his hands so that when he touches Specs he leaves trails of black over his skin.  It's his new medium.  He loves making art and streaking charcoal and leaving kisses along Spec's shoulders and collar bone and arms.  Faint black hearts over his chest.  Specs gasps and Dutchy draws squares and circles and diamonds and any other shape he can think of but in the end all he can write is _mine, mine, mine_.  Specs always has been his best work.  
            In the morning it's okay because charcoal washes off and no one will see.  
            When it's night once more Dutchy can draw all over Specs again and mark him as his.  
            _Tsk__, tsk, tsk._  
  
==  
  
End Charcoal   
  
==

Challenges welcome.

Shoutouts:

**parkranger**:  mmm…  I love Sprace.  Thanx for the suggestion.  I might join the Newsies100 thing.  Hehe.  Of course, this may take a while, since I am extremely good at procrastinating.  
  
**Padfootismyhero**:  ::blush:: aw, thanx.  I hope you liked this one.  
  
**Buttons14**:  haha.  Mini-anthology of slash loving-ness.  I like that.  And by challenge I mean like ::clears throat::  
_Elvis Presley  
50 words  
Pink Bubblegum  
Spot/David_  
And I would write something that was 50 words long and included Elvis Presley, Pink bubblegum, and Spavid (ha, what a funny word).  Ya dig?  
  
**Copper bandit**:  Me?  Good with literary techniques?  ::blush::  Tell that to my English teacher.  Thank you SO much!  And I'm glad Throb sorta got you back into fanfiction, because fanfiction really is a great thing.  Thanx again!  ::glomp::  
  
**studentnumber24601**:  Aw, thanx.  I joined the Refuge!  After only about two weeks worth of procrastinating!  Hehe, sorry.  I don't get things done very quickly.  Thanx for the review.  
  
**Strawberri Shake**:  ::the shoved Spot trips and falls all over Race, and MS snaps a picture with a camera that appeared out of nowhere::  ha HA!  Blackmail!  Thank God Race hadn't shaved his head, that would have been very interesting.  Thanx for the review!  
  
**SpotLover421**:  Hm…FF.net ate your review, but I got some of it.  So yay!  Thanx!  Hope you liked this one!  
  
Review?  Please?


	4. Challenges and Lipstick

Disclaimer:  Nothing belongs to me save for the wonderfully useless drabbles.

==   
  
The Following are By Madison Square  
  
==  
  
Challenge by Buttons14:  
Snitch/Jack  
Cinnamon  
Soccer  
75-100 words  
  
==  
  
**Cinnamon**  
[exactly 100 words!]  
  
==  
  
Jack smells like cinnamon.  Logical, because after every soccer game Snitch plays Jack stands by holding plates on cinnamon cookies.

"Good game, Snitch," he always says.

Once when Snitch was sick Jack brought two dozen minus five cookies to him.

"How's football?" Snitch wheezed.  Jack thought of rolling on grass with boys in tight uniforms, grabbing for balls, blushed bright red.

"Feeling okay, Jack?" when he didn't answer.

"Extremely heterosexual, thank you."

Snitch smiled.

The burnt cookies are gone.  Snitch suspects Jack eats them himself; burnt or no, cinnamon of any kind is good.

And Jack always smells like cinnamon.  
  
==  
  
End Cinnamon   
  
==  
  
Challenge by Strawberry Shake:  
101 words  
black poodle  
Blink/Mush  
Rock concert  
Hershey's chocolate kiss  
  
==  
  
**Kiss**  
[101 words]  
  
==  
  
Rock always makes Mush happy.  Right now he's in The Rosebud and a crazy band, Black Poodle, is playing.  Wants to order a crazy chocolate martini where they stick cocoa along the rim of the glass, plop a Hershey's kiss into the ambrosia.  So he does.

The lead singer has a patch over one eye, and pleasantly blonde hair.  He sees Mush, eyes lock.  The song is over, he mouths, _kiss_.  And Mush can't tell if it's a question or answer or request or maybe he just wants his drink.

When the gig is over, Mush can find out himself.

_Kiss?_  
  
==  
  
End Kiss  
  
==  
  
Drabbles  
  
==  
  
**Lipstick and Blue Eyeshadow**  
[Warning: prostitution, cross-dressing, excessive use of the 'f' word, etc.  (And, now, you shall see how truly strange I am)]  
  
==  
  
_Rough day, Cowboy?_

Cheshire Cat grins widely.  He owns the joint.

_The roughest.___

_Reckon you'll be wanting the best tonight, then?_

A nod.

_Higher price, though._

_I don't care._

Cheshire is ecstatic.  Kelly always was his favorite customer.

_You'll have to pay upfront for this one._

Confused eyes.

_I thought you said this was the best._

_That's why you pay upfront.  Customers tend to forget to leave after it's done.  I don't want to go bankrupt._

_Oh._

A crinkling of paper bills and jangling of change.

_This enough?_

Cheshire nods and points at the wooden stairs.

_Very last door to your left.___

_Thanks._

Cheshire's teeth flash in the dim light.

_No, thank you._

=

The door creaks open and Kelly struts in, already unbuckling his belt.  This better be fucking heaven-sent.  He hadn't had a great day.  He deserved it, right?

_Make this good, whore,_ he grunts.

A pause and Kelly's finished undoing his belt.

_Cowboy?___

Kelly looks up, startled, brown eyes narrowing.  No one calls him Cowboy anymore.  No one but Cheshire.

He hears a low chuckle.

On the bed someone is draped against the headboard, ankles crossed, holding a cigarette lazily to a candle flame, the only source of light in the small room.  The candle sits atop a tiny table.  Behind the artful blue eye shadow and shimmering cheeks and deep red lipstick, Kelly can still tell it's a boy.  He brings the cigarette to his lips and cocks an eyebrow.  Kelly notices a daisy-chain crown over his hair and when he narrows his eyes the boy just shrugs.  He's wearing nothing but a black slip dress and blows a smoke ring in Kelly's direction when he stares.

_Hi there, beautiful._

Kelly blushes.  He's not used to man-whores.  This one looks oddly familiar, though.  He has sandy brown hair and startling blue eyes and Kelly thinks that if he looks at his eyes anymore he'll never be able to figure out who the boy is because all he'll see forever and ever are those blue orbs.  So he looks somewhere else.

Around the room, a glimmer of reflected light blinks at him.  There, in the corner, a black and gold cane.

_Spot?___

_Damn, you've got me._

Kelly sputters.  Spot takes a long drag on his cigarette and straightens his crown of daisies.

_Want a stick?_ he says suggestively.

Kelly feels himself grow hot.  He looks away and talks at the cane.

_What happened to you?  You disappear for a year and some and now you're—you've—have you gone insane?_

_A little_, Spot admits.

_What the fuck happened?_

_No need to shout, Cowboy_.  He sucks on the white stick.  _Can we get one with it?_

_No._

Kelly walks closer to the bed, realizes his belt is undone, and stops.  _How did you get like this, Spot?_

_It's none of your fucking business_, he growls, angry for the first time in months.  Anger is such an odd feeling and it rejuvenates him.  It brings him to his feet so that he is nearly pressed against Cowboy.

Kelly notes with detached satisfaction that he is still taller and steps back.

_What?_  Spot smirks.  _Can't take any physical contact?_  He drops his cigarette to the floor and Jack almost is afraid that the wooden planks will catch fire but nothing happens.  Spot stomps on the ashes with excessive force.  Kelly notices burn marks on Spot's upper arms.  He wonders if there are any more under the black fabric.

_Fuck you._

_That's what you're here for._

Before Spot can say anything else Kelly has him slammed up against the wall and his hands are wrapped around his slender neck.  There will be bruises in the morning.  The candle light makes the shadows dance over their faces.  Somewhere along the way the daisy crown has dropped to the floor and it lay there, forgotten.

_You're fucking_ gone, _aren't you?_

Spot doesn't answer.  For some reason this infuriates Kelly more.  Soon there is a tangle of arms and legs as the men tumble and grapple and punch (and in Spot's case, bite).  They hit and growl and pound against the floor and the people below them must think they're having a hell of a good time.  Somehow Jack manages to throw Spot onto the bed and he climbs over him and draws his fist back.  Spot just lies there, breathing heavily and waiting, the dress ripped in several places and slipping off his shoulder.  And Jack can't do it.

_I'm gonna kill you,_ he says in a threatening manner.

_I'm waiting,_ Spot whispers.  _Come on, then._

Kelly hesitates.  He sees Spot's blue eyes and his swollen lips and wants to inflict as much pain as possible.

Spot smirks again and Jack shudders.  Spot's arms snakes out and tips over the candle on the table next to them.  The flame goes out and hot wax spills onto the floor.

_You can kill me better in the dark._

Jack crushes his lips against Spot's and it's okay because that's all part of the job.  
  
==  
  
End Lipstick and Blue Eyeshadow  
  
==

Challenges welcome.

Shoutouts:

**Buttons14:**  Thanx for the challenge!  I hope you liked Cinnamon.  It was actually kind of weird writing it, 'cause you NEVER see ANY Jack/Snitch.  Hehe.  And I got one hundred words!  In the beginning there were 25 extra words…hehe.  
  
**Strawberri Shake:  ::is** glomped:: (whenever I type out glomp, it always first comes out as 'glimp' and it's very strange).  Blackmail is the best, and I LOVED your challenge.  Aww, Blinky and Mushie.  Hehe.  Thanx!  
  
**Padfootismyhero:**  Thank you!  Sux that you're grounded though.  I hope your parents are nice and might let you off early.  Ta ta!  Thanx!  
  
**Song Birdy:**  Yay!  Thanx!  Hope you liked this one, but it was a tad bit absurd and disturbed (alright, a LOT).  
  
**SpotLover421:**  ThanQ!  Yeah, FF.net does wonky things and cuts off people's reviews and eff's up stories a lot.  But in the end it's all good.  Thanx for the review!  
  
Review?  Please?


	5. Rain and Perfect

Disclaimer:  Nothing belongs to me save for the wonderfully useless drabbles.

==   
  
The Following are By Madison Square  
  
==  
  
Challenge by The Nameless Wonder:  
Jack/Spot  
137 words  
kidnapping  
thunderstorms  
rhinestones  
pink glitter  
  
==  
  
**Rain**  
  
==  
  
When Jack saw him he wanted him.  So he took him.  Tragic tale of lust at first sight.  He stood there, waiting for his bus, adorning a black tee with glittering rhinestones.  _Rockstar_.  Later on Jack would learn his name was Spot.

They sat in a forgotten gazebo of a forgotten park, overrun by plants and flowers and glass bottles and Spot said, "When are you taking me home?"

The rain whispered, _never_, but Jack said, "soon."

It thundered and flashed.  That night they slept in the gazebo, holding each other to ward off the cold.

When they awoke, they were wet and stiff but they were happy.

The sky was pink like Jack had never seen it and the rain shone against it like the pink glitter over Spot's eyes.

Jack hoped it never stopped raining.  
  
==  
  
End Rain   
  
==  
  
One Shot [Perfect]  
  
==  
  
_The Ending._  
                        Racetrack is in Skittery's room again.  It seems, lately, that Racetrack is more welcome in this room than his own.  He knows now that Skittery's bedspread is always black black black like his curtains and shelves and desk and that the walls would be white if not for the posters and drawings tacked up unprofessionally around the room.  He knows that in Skttery's dresser the top drawer contains boxers and tee-shirts; the middle drawer contains more tee-shirts—mostly the ones with strange phrases on them; the last drawer holds all his porno magazines and flavored condoms hidden under a layer of socks and armbands.  He knows that in the bathroom Skittery has coconut-scented shampoo and fluffy yellow towels.  
                        He can't remember if in his room his walls are white or blue under the posters and whether his socks and condoms are in his bottom drawer of maybe they aren't even in the same drawer.  And what does his shampoo smell like again?  Mint?  Berries?  Roses?  
                        Race wonders how well Snitch knows Skittery's room.  Afterall, Snitch is here almost every night.  Actually, Racetrack reasons, Snitch probably only knows the color of Skittery's bed spread and maybe that the condoms are in the sock drawer.  
                        Why are you here, Skittery sighs, even though he already knows the answer.  He rubs his hair with one of his yellow towels; his brown curls are still wet and his thin white shirt clings to his skin.  Skiterry's boxers say proudly, "I Heart NY."  He sits down on the bed—it's still warm; Snitch climbed out the window just minutes before Racetrack arrived.  
                        Advice, Racetrack says.  I don't know what I'm doing.  I don't know what _he's_ doing.  Does he want me, or not?  Every other day he's with Laura or Sarah or Tim but in the end he always comes back.    
                        Spot's name hangs unmentioned in the air.  
                        I can't deal with it anymore.  
                        Then don't.  Skittery already looks bored with the conversation.  He's had it so many times before.  
                        But I _want_ to deal with it.  
                        Then tell him about it.  
                        Racetrack thinks about what Skittery says, then pointedly ignores the statement.  
                        He says, It's like I'm on a shaky bridge blindfolded.  He's on the other side.  Every step I take can either bring me closer to him, or the edge of the bridge.  Every step has to be so careful, you know?  All I want to do is run.  And he's there, waiting for me.  But I just can't get to him.  I see him but I can't reach him.  I'm so lost.  
                        Skittery listens intently.  They both wait for the perfect answer even though there was no question to begin with.  Then, finally—  
                        Why don't you just jump, he tells Racetrack, disgusted.  Put yourself out of your misery.  1  
                        Racetrack remains silent.  
  
_Before that there was Spot and Race, blue eyes and brown eyes, Eskimo kisses and butterfly kisses and French kisses, apologies and acceptances, lovers and anger, and before that Spot was in Racetrack's room and before that the parents had left.  
  
Before that._  
                        Racetrack is at Spot's front door and he doesn't have to ring the doorbell because the key is hidden under the Welcome mat.  He lets himself in and sees an extra pair of shoes by the door.  Spot's parents are away on a business trip so their shoes are missing.  He takes another step and a foreign scent fills him.  The scent of cherries and sugar and sex.  Scent of woman.  He runs up the narrow stairs and bursts through Spot's door.  
                        And there they are.  Girl and boy lay on the bed, asleep.  
                        Spot, you fucker, he says.  
                        Spot stirs and sits up but the girl stays still.  He looks at Race with unfocused eyes and a faint smile on his lips.  
                        Good morning.  
                        You fucker, he repeats.  
                        Spot looks over at the sleeping girl and says, this is Lucy.  
                        Racetrack shakes his head and leaves; Spot hears him slam the front door.  He goes back to sleep.  
                        Later he'll go to Race and apologize and make up, but not before letting Lucy draw eyeliner around his blue eyes and place red lipstick kisses over his shoulders and collarbone.  
  
_Before that Spot and Lucy went under the covers and took off their clothes and played hide and seek and before that Spot met Lucy and called her beautiful and before that he said good bye to his parents.  
  
Before that._  
                        Summer brings sun and swimsuits and laziness and weed.  Summer nights bring parties and pools and cigarettes on the side.  It is summer night and Spot is sitting with his ankles in the chlorine-water, smoking a cig, ignoring the people laughing and dancing and swimming around him because he fucked up again.  
                        Join the fun, someone says above him.  When Spot looks up no one is there.  
                        Having loads already, he breathes to no one in particular.  He throws the cigarette into the pool and watches it die and drown.   
_  
Before that._  
                        Spot is kissing Blink and he likes it.  Blink kisses him back because he is the one in the corner and he has nothing else to do and Spot is pretty spiffy looking.  
                        Let's get a bed.  
                        Let's get a joint.  
                        Okay.  
                        Okay.  
                        That's when Racetrack sees them in the corner and feels fury curdle the blood in his veins.  He rushes up to them and pulls Spot away.  Blink looks dazed, then sheepish, cheeks turning from blush-red to scarlet.  Spot looks at Race in the eyes, unwavering even though he is drunk.  
                        Racetrack wants to hit him, hard.  Hit him until his own knuckles start to bleed.  Hear the satisfying slap of flesh hitting flesh.  
                        But again, like later, he turns away and lets Spot deal with the consequences.  
  
_And before that there were drinks and before that they arrived and before that they sat in the car, raw emotion playing on the radio and in the backseat, and before that Race drove to Spot's house and before that Race was at Skittery's, asking bitching asking, and before that there was three weeks of the same thing.  
  
Before that._  
                        Outside the theater, Skittery says, This is Spot.  He moved here from Brooklyn a few weeks ago.  
                        Race says, Hi Spot, and Spot's eyes bore right through him.  Race shivers even through it's the middle of the summer.   
                        Who are you? he asks, his voice low.  
                        That's Racetrack, Snitch answers for him, linking his arm through Skittery's.  
                        Oh.  
                        Hi.  
                        Yeah, hi.  
                        Spot is still staring at him and Racetrack has to look away.  Silence descended and stifles the group.  Skittery glances at them both nervously and says, Come on.  The movie is about to start.  
                        They go in.  
  
_Before that Skittery and Snitch and Race sat in the car and before that Skittery told them they were meeting someone and before that Race was asleep on his bed and before that they made plans and before that he lit up and smoked a joint.  
  
Before that._  
                        Everything was perfect.  
  
_The Beginning._  
  
==  
  
End [Perfect]  
  
==

[A/N]: 1 Quote from Annie Dillard's _The Writing Life._  
  
Dear Spotlover421, Buttons14, and Checkmate,  
            I SWEAR that I'm working on your challenges as well.  Really.  I've just been mucho busy and haven't had much time.  Plus, I'm going away for summer school on Saturday, so I won't have much time for three weeks (again).  I think I'll be able to work on them while I'm in California, though (which is where my summer school is).  Again, I'M SORRY.  I'll be back in August, hopefully.  
  
Much love,  
MS  
  
DEAR EVERYONE IN GENERAL,  
            Last update before leaving for California.  Then I'll be back around August.  
  
Much Love,  
MS  
  
Challenges welcome and wanted (I'll probably need something to do while I should be studying, you know, in summer school)

Shoutouts:

**Spotlover421**:  Hehe.  Thanx!  I PROMISE that I'll work on your challenge.  I'm just lazy.  
  
**Strawberri** **Shake**:  I TOLD you I was insane.  Yes, Spot as a man-whore.  It works, positive.  Haha.  Thanx for the review!  
  
**Buttons14**:  Wait, you don't drink Coke because it's good for your muscles?  Or I'm assuming you were talking about the gingerale…Hm…I don't like soda, so I can't relate.  Thanx for the review!!!  P.S.  I've never seen Jesus Christ Superstar, so your challenge is a bit iffy.  Never fear, I'll get it done!  
  
**studentnumber24601**:  ::beams:: Thank you much.  Lalala.  Thanx for the review.  
  
**Checkmate**:  I like your challenge.  It's very…random.  Nice.  I'll get to it, don't worry.  Thanx for the review!!  
  
**The Nameless Wonder**:  Er, I don't speak German, so I really have no idea what you said, but…thanx?  I hope you liked this SPACK.  That's such a funny word.  Hehe.  Thanx for the review!  
  
**C.M. Higgins**: Thank you!  Well, you know, I'M a bit on the disturbed side, as well, so naturally my writing will reflect that.  Haha.  Thanx for the review!  
  
Review?  Please?


	6. Sunscreen and Blue Waves and Blue Monday...

Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me save for the wonderfully useless drabbles.

The Following are By Madison Square  
  
Challenge by Spotlover421:  
Sprace  
80-110 words  
beach  
sunscreen  
lifeguards  
  
**Sunscreen and Blue Waves**  
  
The Ocean is huge.

Racetrack says, Can't believe you've never gone in before.

He gets his sunscreen, squirts white goop onto his hand. He spreads it across his chest, arms, legs, then hands the bottle to Spot. Uncertainly, Spot takes it.

Racetrack: Hey, could you get my back?

Spot: Yeah, sure.

Slather it onto his back, smooth it over his shoulders, press fingers against his spine. Kiss the base of his neck.

Spot doesn't want any.

You'll get sun-burnt.

I know.

Got to go.

I know.

Racetrack walks towards the lifeguard stand.

Racetrack: You'll go in this time?

Spot says, sure, like he always does.  
  
But the Ocean is huge.

End **Sunscreen and Blue Waves**  
(a/n: I _swear_ it's 110 words! Er, well, it is if you count sun-burnt as ONE word. HA.)  
  
**Blue Monday Ghost**  
  
i wake up monday morning at exactly five fifty-five a.m., eyes half-closed, face to face with a ghost. i live in the attic of the house so this is normal.  
  
hello, there, i say to her. she is all drifty and floaty and i can barely make out her face but her mouth opens and in the half-light i hear the wind or the girl say beware beware. maybe i have a pop quiz today.  
  
two hours later i am at the school and everyone seems to be going extra slow even though all i want to do is get done with school and get done with work and get done with homework and get done with practice and get done with sleep so that it can be tuesday and i can get done with monday.  
  
when i get to english class everyone is already there and i see jack and before he even opens his mouth i can hear him say good morning and sleep much? and what did you do over the weekend?  
  
oh, nothing, is the commonplace answer. i have half a mind but not really half a mind to tell him that i died over the weekend just to liven things up but then i see that girl. the ghost looks more real now and her hair is blue and her clothes are shiny and she's got wings. i don't know how she got wings because they sure as hell weren't there this morning but it doesn't matter because i see the wings and all is right with the world.  
  
when i blink she is gone but i can see feathers that are drifting in the wind so i know she was there.  
  
jack says hello, you there? and i nod but it's an obligatory sort of nod that people use when they aren't really listening.  
  
then mr. d walks into the room and class starts and the clock stops. the clock hands will move one minute an hour because it is monday and mondays are the longest days in the world.  
  
End **Blue Monday Ghost**  
(a/n: can someone tell that I don't want to go to school? Also that I'm a very strange person indeed, writing about ghosts on Monday morning?)

(A/N): _Blue_ seems to be my theme of late, eh? Haha.  
  
Challenges welcome and wanted

Shoutouts:  
**Strawberri** **Shake**: Jack is psycho. Yes indeedy. All the newsies are, yeah? That's why we love 'em. Well, that's why _I_ love them.  
  
**Buttons14**: Thank you thank you thank you. And yes, you can put up Drabbles and See Spot Run on your webpage! I'd be honored! WoohoO! Man, I need lots of sugar right now. I'm so, I donno, fried.  
  
**C.M. Higgins**: YAY! Summer school was actually pretty fun because I did not-very-much work. But anyway. THANK YOU FOR REVIEWING.  
  
Review? Please?


	7. Super Hero

Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me save for the wonderfully useless drabbles.

Madison Square  
  
**Super Hero. Bumlets.**  
  
Hello.  
  
My name is Bumlets. Obviously, that's not my real name. I mean, what Parents in their right minds would name their kid Bumlets? That's about the equivalent of naming a child Harry Dick. Bumlets is my codename.  
  
My real name is unimportant.  
  
What _is_ important, however, is to declare that I am a perfectly Average Teenage Boy. I mean, aside from the fact that I live with many other Average Teenage Boys in a giant secret warehouse that has a giant poster over it that says "Closed for Repairs." That sign has been up since 1899.  
  
I am perfectly normal. That's what I screamed when my parents kicked me out of the house two years ago when they saw me in my room with dozens of floating, spinning discs surrounding my own floating, spinning form. That's when I met all the other Average Teenage Boys.  
  
Hello.  
  
My name is Bumlets, and I am a superhero.  
  
Oh, drat. There goes the alarm.

**Super Hero. Racetrack**  
  
Stupid fucking alarm I was sleeping why can't we save the world later everything's a little blurry I need my contacts ugh okay that's better.  
  
Stupid Bumlets floating around like that. Where is everybody else?  
  
Bumlets says they've all already left.  
  
Stupid everyone. Leaving me behind.  
  
Cowboy's probably leading the way and Dave is thinking up plans and I wonder what happened this time?  
  
Wait a minute. Is that Spot on the other bed? We should never have taken him in. He's psycho. I bet he didn't hear the alarm.  
  
I'll go scare him awake. That'll teach him.  
  
Ow, damn it he punched me. Stupid Spot.  
  
He said, Fuuuck Racetrack go away I'm sleeping, but I told him work is work and get your guns.  
  
So off we go, then. Spot is pointing that gun pretty close to my head. Watch where you point that thing.  
  
Float, spin, drift. There goes Bumlets.  
  
We slide into the garage and I get in my beautiful red tiny sports car with black leather interior and Spot gets in the passenger side and I zoom off, engine roaring, breaking the speed of sound.  
  
My name is Racetrack and I am a superhero. Watch me zoom.  
  
**Super Hero. Spot.**  
  
Check this.  
  
We're cruisin' down the road at, like, 365 miles per hour and all the buildings are blurry, right? So, then, with my super-accurate-non super-hero peripheral vision, I see the scene of the crime. I tell Racetrack to stop and he does and we get out.  
  
Check this.  
  
Two super-villains on the roof and four super-heroes surrounding them. They're way up high and I couldn't possibly get up there without climbing the stairs. But then Race says, Let's climb the wall.  
  
He's stupid like that.  
  
That's when Bumlets swoops down and scoops me up, leaving Race to scale the wall by himself. Serves him right for waking me up like that.  
  
I have my guns and fire and bombs so I'm content. I get up to the crime-scene and everybody knows that trouble is coming.  
  
Check this.  
  
I'm Spot and I'm no a superhero, I just like to blow things up.  
  
End **Super Hero**

(A/N): Good? Bad? Ugly?

Too lazy for shoutouts, but will next time!


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